


Mr Wembley and the King

by TWS



Category: Men's Football RPF
Genre: Angst and Feels, BAYERN WON THE BUNDESLIGA, Bundesliga, Crying, End of an era, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Happy Ending, I AM SO HAPPY IT'S UNREAL, Light Angst, One Shot, Retirement, Team Dynamics, There's a lot of that, but it's mostly happy, champions!!!!!!, rafinha gets to play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-19
Updated: 2019-05-19
Packaged: 2020-03-07 10:52:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,457
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18871732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TWS/pseuds/TWS
Summary: There was only one way this story could have ended.





	Mr Wembley and the King

**Author's Note:**

> have a poorly written emotional one shto from the queen of writing poorly written emotional stuff
> 
> yesterday was fucking unreal and increidble will never forget what robbery has done for us, the stadium was the best it has been all season
> 
> don't enjoy i guess
> 
> obvs i took creative license rafinha didnt play and stuff but he had to play in this oneshot so i also tried to make it as close to the 2013 team as possible apart from manu bc i needed that emotional bench moment :') also jeri HAD to play

It takes a lot of willpower for Franck not to dissolve on the spot as he stands on the sidelines. His head pulses as the fans roar at him, every single one of them out of their seats as the winger takes his final step onto the field of the Allianz Arena as a Bayern player. He looks up at the walls of red, his  _palace-_ and thinks,  _I'm not leaving this pitch till I watch that ball having to being scooped out of the net._

He's made lots of purposeful strides in his lifetime, but none of them have ever felt as important to him as these final steps do. This is it, then.  The last game he will ever play in the Bundesliga. Kingsley Coman walks towards him with his knees still trembling slightly with adrenaline, having opened up the score that has led them to this point. His arms open and suddenly the two Frenchmen are clinging to each other.

"Go and do it," Kingsley whispers in his ear. "You go and do what you've always done, king. It's time."

Franck can't take it- he bites down the howl of emotion that threatens to escape him and he squeezes Kingsley tightly. 

_It's time, it's time, it's time. It's the last time._

Twelve years. Twelve years, eight championships, a Champions League title, friendships, losses- somehow it all comes down to the final day to cap it all off. Oh, he's going to do it. He will leave the Allianz Arena in handcuffs if he has to, he would  _murder_ to score that final goal...

Each resounding roar of his name around the stadium threatens to send him to his knees, but he marches onto the field like a soldier, tears welling in his eyes. The fans know that he will fight tooth and nail to give them what they deserve, what they expect of him.

Him and Arjen, ten years gone past- right now, nothing in the world is more important to them than this moment. They have talked about it for weeks and weeks, tears have been shed, drunken reminisciences and fears about the future have been their mainstay- but that all means nothing right now. The only thing that matters is creating one final memory for the fans who stand around the stadium... for themselves... for the team...

David grins savagely at him as he runs towards the team, jaw set. 

"Here he is," his left-back partner says, eyes glinting with excitement. His expression is wild, but there is also the understanding of the finality of it all in the man's eyes. "Still got enough juice left for one final bow, old man?" 

"Oh, yeah," Franck says, a spring in his step so reminiscient of the old days. His body is full of tension- he jumps on the balls of his feet, as if to discharge the electricity stored within his blood. "I've still got one last trick up my sleeve."

***

He can't handle it. He feels like he has been waiting for an eternity for this moment- standing on the sidelines in his training jersey, watching the ball travel sluggishly across the field, just awaiting his delicate touch. He wonders what on earth is taking them so long- when can he get on the pitch and  _run_ again? It feels like the game's clock will run down before he gets his chance. 

Niko can sense his tension and puts a hand on his shoulder. "It's coming, Arjen. You'll be out there soon."

Arjen is too wound up to answer. For the entire day his stomach has been on fire, butterflies and herds of elephants and hundreds of versions of Niklas Süle rampaging inside it. Watching Franck walk onto the field has only made him feel more agitated- he wants to soak up every second he can get with his wing partner. 

He kicks the post and swears as the referee continues the run of play. He isn't angry, he's just incredibly excited. The thrill of the moment is palpable for everyone- the bench players laugh at his zeal, ever-present throughout the ten years he's spent here, and Niko can't help but smile. 

People talk of how football is a results business, but in reality it is a bundle of chaos and passion, and nothing like age and declining form can stop that lethal combination when it's in motion. Arjen has been injured for most of the season but he feels impossibly  _young_ again, as though he is in his prime once more. His calf doesn't feel like it has ever experienced so much as a twinge. The cheers of the fans make him feel stronger, the desire he has to pull off one last moment of magic makes him feel light on his feet. There is a surplus of oxygen, he doubts he will even feel tired when he's out there.

Finally,  _finally,_ it's time. Arjen tears off his warm-up jersey and discards it, feeling the breeze ripple across his final Bayern shirt. The bench players roar encouragement at him and Niko Kovac nods at him. The fans are standing again as Mr Wembley prepares to go out there  _one last time._

 _One last time,_ he thinks, a grin stealing across his face, despite the heavy weight of emotion in his heart.  _You'll show the world your spark._

His left foot is tingling in anticipation. 

Serge Gnabry, his successor, jogs towards him. Arjen is certain he is looking right into the eyes of the future as the young winger makes straight for him. In the hug they share, Arjen tries to send the boy a message.  _After this match-_

"It's all yours," Serge says, holding onto Arjen's face. "Do what you've gotta do, ja?"

Arjen gives an energetic nod.

"Take some notes, this is the last time you'll be able to see this in the flesh," he tells the boy, a cheeky smile tipping at the edges of his mouth. "Make sure you're paying attention, kid... It's up to you after this."

"I'm not worried about that now," Serge says seriously, as if this isn't a watershed moment for him. He looks almost reverent. "This is your show, Arjen." 

The two of them hug one last time, before Serge makes for the bench and Arjen stands before the mighty crowds of the Allianz Arena. The last home game... The last show for the fans...

He wonders if Fips and Basti are watching this moment. Surely they are thinking back to the days where they would have been on the field with him... 

What a wonderful career he has had. He has fallen and gotten back up again, he has missed out on the World Cup by inches and gone onto win the Champions League, he has won the Bundesliga so many times with his left foot never failing him...

And now it's time to bow out. But he's going to fucking score before he does so, otherwise he just might have to sign another contract extension.

***

Niklas seizes Rafinha into a headlock when it comes time for him to start warming up It's presumably meant to be a friendly gesture, but Niklas often underestimates just how big and strong he is and Rafinha wonders if _this_ will be his grand end as he chokes in the enormous German's arms. Eventually, Manu steps in to rescue him, before he dies of asphyxiation.

"Whoops!" Niklas says, as Rafinha massages his throat. "My bad, bro. I just got excited, there. It's time, man! Your last minutes!"

"Yes..." Rafinha splutters, trying to regain his breath as Niko waits for him to start warming up. "On earth..."

Manu smiles at him as he stands up, stretching his arms out, his face full of anticipation and his eyes watery. The big goalkeeper looks somewhat teary himself. 

"Enjoy it," he whispers, giving Rafinha a big kiss on the cheek and a traditional warm hug. "You're never going to forget this moment, so make it a good one."

Rafinha wipes his eyes, knowing that Manu is right, that he should ignore the overwhelming sadness inside him and focus on the beauty of the moment. He has experienced nothing but happiness in this club, and he will continue to do so til the end.

"I wish you were out there with me," he says softly. "We could play with one another one last time. I will miss you so much, my friend."

"I'll miss you too." Manu is really trying not to cry now, but he fails miserably and Niklas has to come and provide support to the supposedly terrifying keeper (with a gentle hug this time). Rafinha smiles and gives his old friend one last hug before turning around to start his last warm-up in the stadium.

He can hear people cheering at him and he smiles at them, his eyes growing wetter by the second. But he feels as though their jubilant, triumphant chants of their name are giving him strength as well as wistful sadness. He gives a little jump and he can't wait til the moment he can run out towards the team again...

The time between the warm-up and the substitution board going up is blissfully brief and before he knows it, he has Joshua Kimmich walking towards him. Kimmich, who hasn't really put a foot wrong all season. Whose way forward seems entirely clear, now.

"Get out there," Joshua Kimmich, now the man with the sole claim to the right-back role, says teasingly. "Get out there and fuck them up."

Rafinha hugs him harder than he has hugged anyone in his life and gives him a big kiss on the forehead. "Thank you, Joshua. Thank you. I will give a performance you will be hard-pressed to live up to..."

Joshua grins. "That's what I like to hear. Deluded optimism is better than nothing, eh?"

Rafinha swats him on the shoulder, but he is smiling uncontrollably. Joshua leaves his side and Rafinha runs onto the pitch, taking deep breaths. His eyes close as he listens to the stadium roar his name, and he gets ready for one of the hardest games he will ever play. He has never liked saying goodbye.

***

It is impossible to feel tired, now- Bayern München lost their chance to lower the tempo of the match for a bit the moment all three legends had stepped on the pitch. Franck, Arjen and Rafinha are determined, with all their heart and soul, to wind back the years and play like they are in their twenties again.

Jerome doesn't even have the chance to laugh as he sees how animated the three are, they have to push forwards so quickly. The wingers are ravenous for a goal, urged on by the jumping fans, and by Uli and Kalle, who were the ones that propelled them to where they are now. The energy is wild and frenetic and the ball is moving so quickly that it almost appears to be a blur before Jerome's eyes.

"Hier, Jeri!" Robert shouts, waving to him for a pass. He's laughing, joyous, trying to keep up with the excitement of it all. Jerome passes to him and Robert immediately starts looking for space, pushing forwards.

It's been a rough season for all of them, including Robert, who has faced criticism and scrutiny for the better part of a few months because of finishing issues. But right now it doesn't seem to matter, they aren't letting themselves unravel now. They're glued together again, they're back in the past. It's one of the most fun games they've played in the course of the whole year. All the others have felt like an uphill battle, so  _tiring-_ but in this one they feel free again.

Today Thomas in particular has been a fearsome force to counter. How many kilometres can the near thirty-year old run, Jerome wonders? He's running now, all flailing arms and legs but danger too. Only voodoo magic has hindered his scoring touch, but that doesn't mean he can't help the others get their goals.

He dribbles around the box, his eyes searching for a teammate to pass to- there is Rafinha, inexplicably in the box. Thomas' lips curl up at the edges and he crosses, wondering if fate will guide the ball into the box-

"ACH, SO NAH!" Manu shouts from the dugout, pounding his fist in his hand but laughing all the same. Rafinha has just gone for a hard shot, but his effort is cleared off the line by a Frankfurt defender. Which is a shame, as Trapp had been beaten.

People cheer all the same, because as far as they're concerned, right now anything either of these players do is nothing short of elite. Franck and Arjen, on the other hand, look as though they're possessed, by one thing and one thing only- the chance for both of them to score a goal. This is a sight rather frightening for the Eintracht players, who really do not need another two goals to sever their already thin chances of getting into Europe.

It looks like they're not even going to get a morsel of remorse from the rampaging Robbéry. In fact, Franck is there right now, looking twelve years younger, with everyone clearing the way...

 _Ah, shit, here we go again,_ Trapp thinks, getting ready... But he can already sense it is too late. He cannot shake the impotence he feels in the face of fate. Robbéry  _are_ fate.

Franck dribbles around three Frankfurt defenders, who can't seem to believe a thirty six year old is eluding their attempts to stop him so easily. He is a sight to behold, all lean technique and magical touches to the ball. David is already on the verge of celebrating because he knows... he knows what's coming... Of course...

"UNGLAUBLICH!" Manu laughs from the sidelines. " _UNGLAUBLICH!_ "

"HE'S DONE IT!" David screams. "HE HAS ONLY GONE AND DONE IT!"

Franck's complete cruise past the defenders apparently isn't enough to make the goal a beautiful one- Franck lifts a chip over Trapp just to finish it all off, and it already seems as though it will be part of his career highlights forever.

"THE KING OF FRANCE LIVES!" Kingsley shouts, sprinting out towards the pitch, the bench players scrambling after him, incomprehensible in their joy.

Franck's triumphant roar is drowned out by the tumult of the Bayern fans. He rips his shirt off without even a second's thought and he runs, he runs, he  _runs._ He runs without any real plan for where he's going to end up- but as per usual, there are the fans before him, oh, those beautiful fans. The other players, his  _teammates,_ collide into him and hold onto him without ever wanting to let go. He's crying, on his knees, feeling their hands and arms and listening to their jubilant cries-

"OH, OH OH OH OH OH OH!"

Uli is actually in tears in the stands, Kalle is smiling with immeasurable pride. David is  _screaming_ in his ear, grabbing onto his shoulders, taking in every bit of this beautiful moment, his mentor could not have given him a better parting gift. And then Arjen is there with him, holding him close and rambling without making any sense, but Franck understands what he's trying to say.  _You've done it. You've fucking done it. Now I'm going to join you and we're both going to go out beautifully._

"Your turn!" Franck shouts at him. It's not even a joke. Arjen nods, there's fierce determination in his eyes.

"Oh, God," Thomas cackles, seeing the fervent desire on the bald man's face. "He's gonna get a goal or die trying!"

That's not even a joke, either. Franck knows his partner very well- he is  _aching_ for that century goal... 

He holds his shirt out to the crowd, bearing his number and his name, one they will never forget.

The referee, who obviously has to put a cap on how much indulgence the players can have, draws out a yellow card. He knows before he even takes it out that Franck is going to pay it as much heed as he would pay heed to a speck on his shirt, but a precedent has been set for stuff like this. 

Franck gives him a hug, patting his cheek before jogging off. The referee shows him the yellow card but nobody gives a good god damn. It seems fitting, anyway, that in his last game ever Franck would somehow find a way to get booked.

***

There is a mounting expectation amongst everyone in the world watching, and it grows bigger by the second- now it's Mr Wembley's turn.

Arjen does not need the expectation nor does he feel the pressure. He knows that he's going to score. 

In what way, he's not sure. It's foolish to suggest the goal will be scored by anything other than his left foot. Perhaps it'll be a beautiful corner goal à la versus Manchester United,  or it'll be a solo effort like the one his best friend has just come out with. It seems most likely that he is going to end up reverting to what he knows best-  _cutting inside and scoring a banger with that damn left foot._

It would be wonderful if he could end it by cutting inside, he thinks, as he sprints bodily in every possible direction. He needs two goals to reach that century, so maybe he could save that for his grand finale. Right now he needs anything- hell, he'll even take a tap-in. He just needs to hear those fans singing again, he needs to feel the high that comes with watching that ball bounce against the net.

He also can't let Franck show him up. He'll get teased for the rest of his life if he could score but Arjen couldn't.

As he runs, he can't believe he's managed to survive sitting out of nearly every game this season. He has been injured _too_ many times in his career, but this has by far been the worst spell yet- the sheer weightlessness he feels right now is testament to just how heavy and awful he has felt over the past half-year. This right here seems to be his natural  _habitat-_ the turf beneath his feet rather than the carpet of his living room, singing and chanting being his background noise rather than the inane buzzing of the TV. All the insanity he has faced trying to get back to full speed has finally culminated into this moment, where he can fucking explode and use the frenzy to drive him forwards. 

They have been  _living_ in Frankfurt's box- Arjen doesn't know whether they've just given up or if Bayern are just overwhelming them. Arjen has followed a lot of the Bundesliga teams' progress- mostly because he has had nothing better to do with his time in the slog that is everyday life for an injured player. Over the course of the season Frankfurt have looked like they could fight their way into the top four, they were on the _brink_ of it, right now they look barely mid-table. They are, however, facing a team who seems to have returned to 2013, and that is unstoppable- he and Franck at the helm, Thomas behind the striker, Javi in the middle, Jerome and David in the back line...

Arjen dribbles to the edge of the box and loses the ball, he dribbles up the field and is forced to pass, but he isn't impatient, contrary to what the maddened looked in his eyes suggests. He'll know exactly when his moment is coming-

Like now.

Serge stands up from his seat on the bench and Leon joins him, holding his hand. Everyone stands up, every single one of them, their captain in front of all of them.

"Wait for it," Serge says. 

They don't have to wait for long.

"That fucking bald idiot," James laughs. 

It seems like  _tap-in_ man will be the new joke of the day, but if there was anything Arjen could care about less in the world, it would be this. 

He makes the run deep into the box, where Trapp is literally inches away from him, everything seems to wind back and play more slowly. There is a mad interchange of passes between Robert and David, with David running towards the edge of the box to deliver the assist. The ball soars towards him and his left foot, screaming excitedly at him, swings through the air. It connects with the ball and-

"TOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOORRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR!"

There is no way he can measure his joy, it is absolute, infinite, never-ending. Arjen shakes his fists and laughs so uproariously his throat might tear. He slides across the turf on his knees, even though his joints complain, and when he leaps back to his feet, Alphonso Davies, yet another player for the future, races towards him and throws his arms around his shoulders, yelling in delight. 

Arjen races towards the other players, with the bench players chasing him again, and Sven running across the full length of the pitch to reach him. Suddenly everyone is on top of him and they're all jumping together, everyone absolutely delirious. Everyone wants to get a hold of him, he's being wrestled and manhandled and his bald head is getting slapped so much he's sure there will be hand prints on it. 

Uli and Kalle can't quite process what this means to them. Uli would quite like to leap off of the terraces and run towards them himself, but he's meant to be a level-headed president so he settles with clapping vigorously, shaking his head in disbelief, while Kalle wears his signature gracious smile, although he has known this was going to happen all along. 

They jump together, Franck swearing at him with great volume and expression and incalculable affection. The 'fucking hells' and 'Jesus Christs' and the 'I can't believe you've done this'' ring in Arjen's ears, and David slams his head against the winger's, holding onto his shoulders while Arjen grips the back of his neck.

"Fucking glorious bastard!" David shouts at him, squeezing him viciously. "Fucking incredible cunt!"

This is how Bayern players express their affection. Arjen just laughs, and laughs, and laughs, his mind fucking maxed out on dopamine.

He blows his kisses to the crowd, that smile simply isn't going to go away anytime soon. 

***

The whistle blows, and Franck, Arjen and Rafinha's last ever home game with Bayern comes to an end.

Something seems to drain out of Franck, as he and David collide into each other, wrapping their arms around each other. They don't say anything, just drink in the moment, Franck starting to feel raw emotion well up inside his throat once more.

Niko and his brother, Brazzo and the other Bayern staff all breathe heavy sighs of relief, of joy. Niko laughs, he listens to the garbled congratulations coming from all ends, it doesn't occur to him that this is his first Bundesliga title as a coach. He suddenly feels so tired, like he could just fall onto the ground and sleep there for a while, but he knows he still has to keep going, because he has fought with blood, sweat and tears for this moment and he is going to enjoy every part of his reward.

Arjen is  _still_ smiling, almost scarily vibrantly, and he waves and waves at everyone til he feels like his arms are going to fall off. The rest of the group drag him into a small circle where they all start jumping up and down together, chanting and dancing. He lets the tide of emotion crash over him and relishes these final celebrations with the team on home ground. 

Rafinha lets himself get throttled in a hug by Jerome, he gets spun around in a circle by Thiago and then crushed in yet another hug by Javi. Thomas leaps on him and pounds at him in jubilation, babbling at eighty miles an hour without any inclination of stopping- Rafinha remembers when Fips could quell his chatter with a look. But he wouldn't have things any other way, he wants to listen to Thomas' noise until the last second he spends in this beautiful city. He won't be able to hear it as much from Brazil...

Lifting the trophy this season is a huge accomplishment, no matter what keyboard warriors and foreign pundits say. This season in particular has felt a little too turbulent by Bayern's standards, and there have been times where it has felt, in simple terms, like a huge fucking drag. They had been ten points behind at one point-  _ten points-_ and somehow, during the Rückrunde, they have managed to fight back to this point...

Football has never been easy. Arjen, Franck and Rafinha haven't coasted to this point, they have stumbled and tripped and more often than not forced themselves to continue on the winding path leading to this glorious end.

Manu, the captain who has faced more scrutiny than he has possibly ever faced in his career this season alone, passes the Bundesliga trophy to all three of them so they can do the honours. For the last time, they hold up the Meisterschale, but also for the first time in the Allianz Arena. It doesn't get much more special than this.

Arjen can't help but feel rather sorry for Niko Kovac, who has naturally been brought to tears by the emotion of winning his first title as a Bundesliga coach. The man is a fundamentally good, kind person, who is always gentle with the players and has never stopped working hard, even if he has been wrong-footed and somewhat...  _naive_ on certain occasions. 

Arjen decides to really show the coach how much he appreciates him. He has a fucking enormous glass of Paulaner in his hands and he makes a beeline for the man, who, demonstrating said naivety at the moment, is gazing in the other direction. Arjen is practised at running quickly without spilling a drop of the ten litre glass, and he niftily weaves through other staff and players, who look at him amusedly. In one massive heave, he pours the entire contents over Niko's head, before promptly sprinting away again.

Niko makes a noise like a drowning man and staggers forwards as the ice-cold liquid strikes him, drenching his hair and his clothes. He is pretty sure his heart has literally stopped in his chest, every nerve of his is suddenly on fire. Robert, who watched Arjen's approach, laughs and turns away from him with the Meisterschale in hands, as Niko stumbles and looks around for the perpetrator, gasping for breath.

Arjen quickly receives universal balance a few moments later, as Mats, with a surprising level of stealthiness, tips another glass over his head. This time there is no hair for insulation and Arjen is sure he has received pneumonia as his sending-off gift. He is rather more experienced with being showered, however, and manages not to react like a dying fish like Niko did.

Finally recovering from his assault, the coach stumbles into conversation with a Bundesliga cameraman, trying to regain his already fragile sense of dignity. Unfortunately, the long-suffering coach can never seem to win and ten seconds into his new discussion he gets soaked in freezing cold Paulaner again, this time by Rafinha.

Niko can do nothing but laugh in shock, goosebumps erupting across his body. Rafinha immediately seems to feel remorse for his actions, unlike Arjen, and profusely apologises, giving the trainer a big hug. Niko waves him off with a good-natured, if slightly shaky chuckle. Beer showers are a tradition in Bavaria- the coach always gets attacked first- he should really have been on his guard. In a way the whole affair gives him a sense of warmth- maybe this is a sign the players have finally accepted him wholly as their manager?

Players are all celebrating in different ways- the young Canadian Alphonso is clinging onto Renato's back, yelling into his ear. Rafinha gets picked up by a tangle of players and they lift him into the air- at first he thinks it's a nice gesture, until they douse  _him_ as well. Serge, Leon, Joshua and Thomas are taking a picture together, clutching the Meisterschale in their hands (and fighting over who gets to hold it). Jerome is hugging everyone he can possibly find, dragging Robert along with him in his quest to bestow affection upon everyone.

Franck stands alone, staring out at everybody. 

It all feels surreal. 

He's been here longer than any of them, at this point. He's known this place for twelve years. He's been here through shithouse wins and complete demolitions and tragic, unbelievable losses. Can it really be possible that those twelve years are over?

Someone presses a microphone upon him. He looks down at it, and realises that it's time to talk to those who have been with him for all this time.

He's always been the joker on the team. He and Rafinha have been the loudest in the locker room for many years, constantly causing trouble and making sure their voices are heard. But right now, for once-

"He doesn't have the words," David snorts. "All that jabbering he normally does, and right now he doesn't know what to say!"

His words are mocking but his eyes are fond, and also full of sadness. Everyone else laughs, and they all come together, watching as though they are proud parents and are not the young ones Franck, Arjen and Rafinha are leaving behind.

Arjen goes to stand on one side of Franck, still smiling, though less insanely and more softly. Mr Wembley has always been the calmest out of all of them, after all. Rafinha goes to stand on the other. The Brazilian looks more quiet and introspective than anyone has ever seen him, usually he yells at the top of his voice and runs havoc just like the younger ones.

"Look at that idiot, Rafa," Manu says, close to tears again. He has played with Rafinha for so long, both at Schalke and for Bayern, and he can't believe the little clown is going so far away. "Look at how he's trying to look all serious. Idiot!"

"Aw, Manu!" Thomas says, grabbing onto Manu's arm and resting his head against his shoulder. The goalkeeper dissolves, covering his face with his hands. Jerome joins in the big group hug, having joined Bayern at the same time as Rafinha and understanding the pain of the moment.

David isn't going to cry. Franck will clown him until he dies if he sees David crying. But he can't stop the stinging of his eyes all the same. Serge and Leon come to give him a big, comforting hug from behind, with Joshua somehow managing to worm his way into the embrace too.

Franck is the oldest, the most experienced and the longest-serving Bayern player, so it comes to him to talk. 

But he can't even speak. He holds the microphone towards his mouth and swallows heavily. He looks out at the banners floating amongst the sea of red.  Banners depicting all three of them, with one particularly beautiful, handmade one of him and Arjen together, in their prime...

"I just wanted to say," he finally chokes out into the microphone, this banner showing their strength encouraging him. The uncharacteristic waver in his voice finally makes David lose his composure and he has to close his eyes. "Thank you. Thank you for a wonderful twelve years." 

The fans roar and stomp for several seconds. Arjen and Rafinha applaud with them, Rafinha just as tearful as Franck, now, but Arjen keeping his cool. 

Franck can't continue and he holds his hand in front of his eyes, shaking. Both Arjen and Rafinha put their arms around him and whisper encouragement in his ears until he finally manages to recover.

"I will say this," he continues, his voice throbbing with emotion, the corners of his mouth trembling. "From the Ribéry family..."

He looks towards the stand, where his teenage daughter, his other children and his wife stand, watching him proudly, his daughter presumably embarrassed by her father's state of emotion but grinning encouragingly at him. 

"From the team..."

Whoops and cheers emanate from the rowdy group behind him, David leading the noise. 

"And from all three of us!" 

The screams are deafening, Arjen and Rafinha pound their chests and blow kisses, Uli and Kalle stand tall and clap with their hearts and souls, and Franck cries something into the microphone that he most certainly is  _not_ yelling for the last time.

"MIA SAN MIA!" 

**Author's Note:**

> that ending was so corny but just goes to show that is the kind of shit these people inspire from me


End file.
